William Ryan - The Bloody Meadow

The second room was the same as the first and, again, their arrival had a pronounced effect. A youth with tousled hair was playing the accordion but the music came to a sliding halt when he saw the brown pointed budyenny caps of the two uniforms. Other grey winter faces turned towards them, watching them, wondering what the four intruders wanted. In the far corner a white-haired man, a thin beard under a hawk’s nose, read to a circle of men and women, their heads bowed. It wasn’t Korolev’s business but he’d wager a month’s salary it was a bible he was reading from and that the man was a former priest. The reader looked up and, without taking his eyes away from the intruders, said a few quiet words which resulted in the silent dispersal of his audience. Korolev watched him place the book in a bag, and sit down on a bed to watch their approach. There was no fear in the man’s eyes, but Korolev looked away anyway, trying to make it clear it wasn’t him they were after.

It was this turning his gaze away that brought the sleeping Shishkin to his attention. The shock of blond hair was the same, but the face was not so open any more. Moscow hadn’t been kind to the smiling youth – someone had hit that nose of his once or twice and left it crooked, and a half-healed scar had replaced most of his left eyebrow. Korolev leant down to shake Shishkin awake, ignoring the people pushing in behind him, and the gathering of men blocking the only visible exit. He’d deal with those problems when the time came.

‘Wake up, Citizen.’

The young fellow reeked of alcohol and hadn’t shaved for a day or two and, when he turned in his sleep, Korolev couldn’t help but notice the dark spatters on the sleeping man’s filthy clothing and the black crust of dried blood on his wrist as he lifted a hand to his face. Korolev shook him again and Shishkin’s eyes were suddenly wide open – as if he’d been disturbed from a bad dream.

‘Shishkin, Ivan Nikolayevich Shishkin – that’s you, am I right?’

Shishkin managed to focus and then nodded slowly, even though he seemed unsure of the answer.

‘I’m Korolev, Captain Korolev of the Moscow Criminal Investigation Division. From Petrovka Street.’

He could hear his words being relayed back through the building. They’d know Petrovka Street – it was famous in its own way. A Soviet Scotland Yard, or so it was said.

‘What do you want?’ Shishkin said, his voice still slurred from drink.

‘Where were you last night, Citizen?’

Something stirred in the young man’s eyes, not quite recollection but certainly unease.

‘Here. I was here.’

‘What’s this on your hand, Citizen? Is it blood?’

‘I don’t know. I had some drink. What of it? Maybe I got into a fight.’

‘Were you at your brother’s? Is that where you were drinking? At Tolya’s?’

‘No, I was here.’ But Shishkin wasn’t even convincing himself.

‘His neighbour saw you go inside at eight o’clock. Then later on he heard you and your brother argue. And then a commotion. And then silence. That was you, wasn’t it?’

Shishkin didn’t argue. His eyes were focused on the night before, trying to remember, not wanting to.

‘He’s dead, Citizen,’ Korolev said, and Shishkin’s face drained of colour. Perhaps he remembered something – perhaps in his mind’s eye he could see his brother’s face just before he’d hit him for the first time.

‘That blood on your hand – where did it come from?’ Korolev asked again.

‘Blood?’ Shishkin said. ‘What blood?’

Korolev waited till the boy looked down at the dried blood that ringed his wrist and stained his jacket. Waited till he saw Shiskin swallow hard at the sight of it.

‘How did you get back here? Did you walk?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So you were there?’

‘No,’ Shishkin said, his eyes sliding away from Korolev’s.

‘You’ll have to come with us, Citizen. You have some questions to answer.’

‘It’s all a lie. The neighbour is lying. I was here. The neighbour killed him, like as not. He wanted his room – it was a good room. To kill a man for a room – the Devil himself wouldn’t do such a thing.’

Korolev turned – he saw shock in the nearer faces.

‘Can anyone confirm that this man was here last night between eight and eleven? Anyone?’

Korolev looked around and thought there was just a chance this might turn out all right. A small chance.

‘Why would I kill my own brother?’ Shishkin asked into the silence. ‘You know what these fellows are like, brothers – they’ll make up any lie against you. Don’t let me pay for another man’s crime.’

The workers stayed silent, considering the point, and Korolev could feel the matter going against him.

‘There are fingerprints on the hammer, Citizen. If they aren’t yours, you’ll be safe enough. You have my word on it.’

An older man, with bright blue eyes in a florid, bearded face, made his way through the crowd, followed by a woman. The woman had an oval face, skin roughened from years in the fields and straight grey hair pulled back under a white handkerchief. These would be the leaders of the hostel.

‘Vanya, swear to us you’d nothing to do with this,’ the woman said, her voice almost as deep as a man’s. A pleasant voice, but firm as a rock.

‘Nothing, I promise you. I was here. No one remembers because I was asleep.’

‘Why aren’t you surprised, Citizen? Your brother is murdered and all you do is deny you killed him. And why no grief for your brother?’ Korolev’s words hung heavy in the air, and he could see out of the corner of his eye men nodding at the point. It was important he only looked at Shishkin – though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because his cold gaze was having some effect on the young man.

‘You’re twisting things – that’s what you devils do. He was my own brother, I could never hurt him.’

‘What about the blood, Citizen?’ Korolev pressed, asking the questions he knew his audience wanted answered.

‘What blood? A fight, that’s all. This is what you do to men. Wake them up and tell them things. Confuse them. He’s alive is all I know.’

‘He’s dead,’ Korolev said flatly. ‘He was hit with a hammer. Three times. The first blow shattered his left cheekbone.’

Korolev placed his thumb on Shishkin’s face where the hammer had struck.

‘The next glanced off his right cheek and broke his collarbone.’

Again Korolev mimicked the blow, this time hitting the boy a light blow on the shoulder. Then he placed his middle finger on top of the boy’s head.

‘The last, the order may be wrong, it doesn’t matter, but this blow hit him here, punched a five-centimetre-wide hole and split his skull from back to front. I was with the doctor when he examined him. Your brother’s dead all right.’

Shishkin flinched each time Korolev touched him and his voice wasn’t much more than a whisper when he answered.

‘I didn’t do anything to Tolya. I swear to you, I loved him.’

‘Perhaps you were angry with him?’

‘This is all lies – I haven’t seen him for weeks. He’s still alive, I know he is.’

The bearded man glanced up at Korolev. ‘Tolya’s dead, then?’

‘Dead as a man with a hammer through his skull.’

‘It could have been any hooligan from the street. There’s no reason it should have been our Vanya.’

‘Except he was seen entering Tolya’s room shortly before he died and seen leaving it soon afterwards. If it’s some other fellow’s fingerprints on the hammer, then we need to do some thinking. But at the moment it looks like your Vanya here is our man. I have to take him with me.’

A reaction moved through the crowd as he said this – a squaring of shoulders, a step forward, a scowl – at least some of them would like to stop him taking Shishkin anywhere. He looked at the elders for an answer, wondering what was going through their minds. They’d carved out a little bit of independence for themselves in this hovel of a hostel, it was true, but even they must know that they’d have to give him up sooner or later.